Amor Vincit Omnia

Summary:
Latin for "Love Conquers All," Amor Vincit Omnia will follow the life of Esme and Carlisle throughout history put forward by Stephanie Meyer.A continuation of "Bridging The Gap" it will consist of a series of snap-shots through the eyes of Carlisle or Esme. Following canon of Pre-Twilight and the four novels of The Twilight Saga.Canon, EsmexCarlisle.

The pure white moon above peaked ceremoniously through the dense layer of cloud that constantly hovered over the northern state of Washington. The frequent dull mist of endless rain made an appearance through the boughs of the forest we ran through. Ahead of where my wife and I ran at the back of the group, the gleaming rays of the celestial orb that hung in the sky bounced off Edward’s auburn hair as he chased his brother through the trees.

The town of Hoquiam in the Olympic Peninsula of Northern America had been the place we called home for the past three years. The small village, set amongst acres of forested land, had become our resting place after the warmth of the Northeastern US and the mountainous regions of Montana and Idaho. Emmett had been with our family now for just over fifteen years, and the days had blended mercifully into weeks, the months seamlessly elapsed into years, and the years passed us by filled as they were in great bliss.

The day that I had changed Emmett, I had been unable at that one specific point to comprehend the significance of this one boy. The boisterous young man, my son, with the mop of curly brown hair, had quickly satisfied a place within my children’s, my wife’s and my heart respectfully.

In the same way that I had known as soon as the garnet eyes of my wife had met mine approaching thirty years ago, it was noticeable that in Emmett, Rosalie had found her true love. Esme and I had treaded the nervous, shy and unpredictable waters of courtship for the five months it took to make her completely and irrevocably mine. It had taken Emmett over a month to gain my daughter’s trust. Turning Rosalie when, and as, I had, had never given my flaxen haired daughter the true absolution that she needed from the memories of the night of her change. My wife, first son and I had watched as Emmett valiantly stumbled over the challenges and anything that separated him from my daughter. The kindred spirit that she had found dying in the woods had stayed persistent in his humor, and his tenderness, and thus a new romance blossomed.

The wildlife in the town of Mid-Western Washington state that we now resided in was far from plentiful. So, as my family settled down to dinner on the three elks that my two sons were able to find that night, I reminded myself to be thankful. The wind blew wickedly against the five of us; the sounds of the forest were loud in my ears as the deer’s heartbeat gradually faded into silence.

Changing direction, the wind now blew at my family from the south as the respective sounds of my children drinking receded. As Emmett and my wife stood up from their respective meals, the air around was filled with a horrifying odor, with the crunching of bracken, the breaths of animals, the rapid pumping of their hearts. Standing up from the deer that I had just shared with my wife, I moved to the apex of our family. Grasping Esme’s hand within mine, I pushed her behind me as Edward shielded her on my other side. Catching my son’s molten golden quizzical stare in my peripheral vision, I explained in the one necessary word.

“Werewolves.”

The platinum blonde brother from the Volturi coven in Italy had harbored a hatred of the Children of the Moon ever since he nearly lost a fight with them a number of millennia ago. I had received the stories when I had lived with the three brothers over two centuries ago, Caius’ face twisted with an abhorrent look, his refined voice sharp, his red eyes glazed with memory.

As my largest, most boisterous son came forth with my daughter, both trying fruitlessly to shield the other without any success, there was the movement of air followed by the softer crunch of twigs and the tap of bare flesh on the muddy ground.

“Your kind is not welcome here,” a smooth voice, highlighted with a prominent lilt of a native language, spoke out of the trees. Three stepped forwards, clad in nothing but cloth shorts, their russet skin radiant in the light of the high moon. Identical masks of disdain adorned the striking features of the three Native Americans; they stopped nothing less than ten yards away from us.

Behind me, my wife tensed, her slim fingers constricting slightly upon my protective grip of her hand. “Esme, Rosalie, go on home, we will meet you there shortly.”

Neither moved an inch in the direction of our house, however Rosalie inched closer to her husband, gripping his arm and shaking her head.

“Rose, just do what you’re told for once, please,” I implored. Pressing her lips to my palm once, my mate dropped my hand after whispering a vow of her love for me. Grasping her only daughter within her arms, she pulled her away from Emmett, rushing her towards the safe haven of our cottage.

A growl of warning built in my son’s chest, and I turned just in time to watch as one of the men took a step towards us, his gaze locked on the retreating backs of my wife and daughter. Placing a lean hand upon Emmett’s chest, Edward’s mistrusting eyes never left the unstable werewolf, whose upper extremities were trembling.

“My name is Carlisle Cullen, we mean you no harm.”

“Believe me Carlisle Cullen,” the leader sneered, his lips turning up in a scorn, “it is not our safety that we are worried about. Your kind is not welcome upon this land.”

It took until the sun came up the following morning, for us to diffuse the situation. Ephraim Black, the levelheaded leader of the small tribe of Quileute wolves, had extended a mildly trusting hand while his brothers looked on brooding. The seven hours that my two sons and I had spent with the three strangers had better given us an insight into the preternatural world that lived outside of the coven in Ancient Volterra, the sisters in Alaska and the many dear stragglers that I had encountered on my travels a hundred years ago. After proclaiming our unusual diet, much to the bewilderment of the three protectors, we had found that the trio had become much easier to converse with. We had been able to construct a set of firm boundaries.

As it was the tribe’s loyal task to ensure the safety of everyone they saw under their care within the small towns surrounding Hoquiam, they saw myself and my family as an unknown; not to be trusted, a liability. In order to combat this, we had been given the ominous demand that we were to never bite a human being on, or near, their land. And as a last gasp attempt to save my family from having to encounter the hostility of, as they saw us, “our enemies” ever, or any time soon, I had strived to ensure that they stay on their own side of the boundary that had been drawn across the Northern edge of the Olympic peninsula.

With one last menacing threat from Ephraim, we take our treaties very seriously, my son’s and I had been able to head back to the house. Opening the front door, of the 19th century house that my wife had skillfully and beautifully renovated when we first moved to the small town, we interrupted Rosalie pacing the width of the open living area. I saw my daughter walk over to her husband and brother, before I was assaulted by a mass of caramel. My mate’s small body clung to my neck painfully tight, her face buried into my chest and after retelling the story of our time with the wolves, she whispered the one word that I knew my entire family were thinking. “What does this mean?”